


Could I, Um.  Can I Speak To Your Manager?

by Soliyra



Series: In Loving Color [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Coming Out, Crack, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Love at First Sight, M/M, My First AO3 Post, My First Fanfic, My First Work in This Fandom, Podfic & Podficced Works, Queliot Week 2019, Queliot Week day 7: Soulmates, Soulmates, dum bois r dum, gratuitous alliteration, this is my first fic so please be gentle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 10:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19332910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soliyra/pseuds/Soliyra
Summary: Quentin is a very straight boy whose soulmate is a female girl named Julia Wicker. He knows this because he's been able to see washed-out colors since he's known her.Then, one day, he starts seeing more color.  But that doesn't make sense because he already has a female, girl soulmate, and the person he met when it happened is a male guy. This can't be right!





	Could I, Um.  Can I Speak To Your Manager?

**Author's Note:**

> [Podfic available!](https://soundcloud.com/sara-campbell-szymanski/could-i-um-can-i-speak-to-your-manager)
> 
>   _This fic is dedicated to all the women and girls who made passes at me, age 20 and under. Sorry I’m dum._
> 
> It is a miracle! For the first time ever, I have completed a fic! I am still working on my long fix-it, but I got super stuck and frustrated, so I decided to switch gears for a while and finally write down this idea that’s been taking up space in my head for several months. 
> 
> Sometime back in March, before the sky fell, before I even integrated into this fandom, I came across a list of numbered soulmate prompts. There were something like 50, but I didn’t pay much attention past the first one, because #1 was “You can only see black and white until you meet your soulmate, then you can see color,” and I thought to myself, “uh, did you mean _The Magicians_ s1e1, because that’s what happened. I know it was probably supposed to be the school, but let’s be real here…” That, plus [these silly memes I created, ](https://conversationswithtv.tumblr.com/post/185519095722/there-was-a-prompt-but-these-were-the-other) plus my tendency to carry on conversations with television characters, became a full-blown one-off fic. 
> 
> Listen. I know it’s popular to write Quentin as a fully actualized bisexual with experience and confidence, and I love that, but I needed to write a different story, one where he channels 19 year old me. I want to make it clear that I don’t believe in “straight with an exception” or whatever the hell the writers mean by “sexually fluid.” Quentin is a beautiful bisexual baby. He’s just, unfortunately, also a little slow (I can relate!). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Happy Queliot Week, and happy Pride!

Quentin had been able to see colors for pretty much as long as he could remember. They weren’t the bright, riotous things that books described. They were soft and subtle, tinging objects with hints of blue or blush. It was beautiful, in an understated way that didn’t overwhelm his senses. It was nice. Quiet. And it meant that his soulmate was someone already in his life, which was also nice. He was pretty sure he knew who it was, and was quite happy with it. Sure, she didn’t seem interested in a relationship at the moment, but she would come around eventually. He would wait. 

He can’t see the colors now. It was a gray day in the city, and now the sun has set. Darkness has washed the world clean to an even grayscale. He clutches the precious page to his chest as he hurries home, stiff city wind tugging at his long hair. 

A sharp gust wrenches a leaf from his grip, and it dances down the sidewalk and into an alley, a lighter shade of monochrome against the dark pavement. He hisses a small sound of frustration from between his teeth, and picks up the pace, grabbing at the renegade page and watching it dodge his fingers again and again. He staggers into the alley, stumbling over his own feet, reaching for the rustling sheet of paper, moving farther and farther away from his route home. 

He follows the page to a tall, wrought-iron fence and it slips between the posts, because, of course it does. He sighs and hops the fence, landing in an overgrown, moonlit garden, keeps chasing the page into the bushes opposite the fence. The branches grab at his hair and jacket, as he swims through the greenery. The gray greenery. The green…  
The leaves are green. The twigs are brown. And the sky…

The sky is blue. 

He steps out of the bushes into warm sunlight. His mouth hangs open and he is accosted, _accosted,_ by color. He is standing on a field of the greenest grass he has ever seen, hemmed by vividly red brick buildings. The sky is brilliant, overwhelming, almost oppressive in its blueness. The bushes behind him are flowering. He can see now that the blossoms aren’t merely white. They are threaded through with yellows and pinks, like the subtle blushes that used to make up all the color in the world. All the color in the world contained in a white flower. 

He’s so busy staring at the flowers, the bricks, the sky, that he doesn’t even notice that someone is watching him. There is a person across the quad, lying on a low wall in front of the impossibly red building. They lift their head, regarding Quentin, as his feet drag him forward across the green, green grass. His conscious mind has nothing to do with his trajectory. 

He is still craning his neck, trying to take it all in, when he slows to a stop in front of the wall and the man sprawled, catlike, atop it. The man is tall, slender, with immaculately curled hair that is not black, but an impossibly dark brown. His vest is a lighter brown, soft and rich. The color caresses Quentin’s eyes like warm silk velvet. His white shirt catches and reflects the brilliant sunlight. His skin is opalescent: pale but shot through with every color of the rainbow: peach and pink, shifting to subtle greens and purples in the shadows, gold in the highlights, all of it adorned by glimmers of blue peaking through from the veins beneath the skin. If the world was contained in a flower, the entire universe is in this man’s skin. His eyes…his eyes are like nothing Quentin has ever seen. They’re like nothing he’s ever imagined. 

The man in white is smoking a cigarette. He pulls it away from his lips -pink, primrose, peony- and blows a stream of silver smoke into the warm air. He pushes up off his elbow and he is sitting, legs hanging over the wall, torso tilting down toward Quentin as he rests his elbows on his knees. 

There is a card in his hands, (pure white, completely colorless even in the sensory riot). He glances down at the card, frowning, then lifts his eyes to meet Quentin’s, his entire countenance a mask of deep skepticism and mild disgust. 

_“Quentin Coldwater?”_ he asks, like Quentin’s name is the most ridiculous set of words to cross his rosy lips. Like he can’t believe he has to say it out loud. 

Quentin doesn’t know what to say. He stands there gaping for a moment, fighting through sensory overload, as he tries to get his mouth to work. Eventually, he manages an affirmative “Uh-huh.” Ineloquent, but the best he can do under the circumstances. 

The other man hops down from the wall, appraising Quentin and striding into his personal space until his form takes up Quentin’s entire field of vision. He gets a face-full of brown, linen vest (ochre, amber) and white silk shirt before tilting his chin upward, only to get lost in green-gold (glowing, gorgeous) eyes.  
The taller man smiles down at him, smugly, and speaks again. His voice is clipped, even condescending. 

“I’m Eliot.” Then he tilts his head to one side and his smile softens into something warm and sweet, almost sad, matching his voices as he finishes, “… _your soulmate._ ”  
  
Quentin does not know how to respond to that, beyond a simple “Uh…”  
  
Eliot’s head-tilt deepens, and his smile is now hopeful, expectant. 

Quentin is still having trouble making words work, but manages to squeak out a, “No…?”

Eliot’s face transforms, brows furrowing, features crumpling inward with disgust and offense. He draws back as if slapped. 

“No? What do you mean, ‘No’?” 

“I just…” stammers Quentin. “I can’t...” His eyes ricochet around the courtyard, looking for anything to focus on. Anything other than Eliot. He doesn’t find anything good, so he settles on a patch of impossibly verdant grass near his feet. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake.” 

“Some sort of… _mistake._ ” Eliot takes a half-step back and crosses his arms across his chest, tapping ashes off of the cigarette he still holds. 

“Uhh, yeah,” Quentin says, his hands starting to fidget with the book he’s holding in front of his own chest like a shield. Like that’ll protect him. “You…you can’t be my soulmate. You’re, uh. You…”

“I’m _what_?” says Eliot, bristling. He looks like he knows where this is going and does not like it one bit. 

Quentin attempts to backtrack. “You’re... Nothing! It’s just that I, uh, already have a soulmate. So it, you know, it can’t be _you_.”

Eliot shakes his head and takes a drag, sighing, “Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.” He starts to walk away, then stops, pivoting, turning his determined strut into anxious pacing. 

“Look,” says Quentin. “We can clear this up, I. I’m just going to…” He shuffles the book to one arm and digs around for his phone. It’s not in his pocket. He eventually finds it in his messenger bag, only to drop it in the green (too green. How could something be so _green_?) grass. He scoops it up with shaking fingers, sparing a moment’s glance at Eliot, who is regarding him warily through thick eyelashes. He quails under that penetrating gaze (penetrating? Where had that come from?), almost dropping his phone again before he wrestles (wrestles?) his eyes back downward to type out a search for the soulmate department’s customer-service number. 

He finds the number, calls it, and brings the phone to his ear, clutching it like it is his only chance for salvation. He listens to it ring, finally starting to relax, knowing that, once he gets through to a representative, everything will be ok. Whatever this is will be cleared up. 

He stands there, listening to the ringing, looking at the scarlet bricks, the platinum clouds drifting through the azure sky, anything but the man in white, who is now leaning against the ‘Brakebills University’ sign, silently judging him. After what feels like hours, he hears a click, followed by a polished female voice saying, “Soulmate department helpline. Please hold.” There is another click, followed by a tinny, instrumental version of “When I’m 64” by the Beatles. 

Quentin deflates and rolls his eyes, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He stands there with the phone glued to his ear, letting his brain fill in the words to the hold-song. 

_When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now…_

He taps his foot and chews on his lower lip, and glances back at Eliot, who is still standing there, still judging him. The condescending asshole. 

“You know, you don’t need to stay here, you know,” Quentin says, realizing what a mess he sounds like. 

Eliot blinks at him slowly, lower jaw dangling, and squints at Quentin with the same bottomless skepticism he’d had when he’d said Quentin’s name. He looks away, then back again, eyes still narrowed. 

“Where would I go?” he says, slowly, like he is responding to someone very, very stupid. Maybe he is. 

Quentin doesn’t know, so he just sighs and shrugs, avoiding eye-contact. He finds himself humming along to the Beatles song. 

_Every summer we can rent a cottage/ In the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear…_

The phone clicks again, and a woman says, “Soulmate department. How can I help you?”

“Oh-thank-god,” he breathes. Finally. “Yeah, I think there’s been some sort of mistake…” 

“Ok,” says the woman, “Your name?”

“Uh, Quentin Coldwater?” By the wall, Eliot rolls his eyes. 

“One moment while I pull up your file.” Another click, and the music is back- 

_Grandchildren on your knee…_

-But only for a moment. The woman is back. “Thank you for holding, Mr. Coldwater. Oh! It looks like you’ve just met your soulmate today. Congratulations!” 

“Thanks?” says Quentin. His head is spinning. “Uh, actually, that’s kind of what I’m calling about. I don’t…think I actually _have_.” There is a derisive snort from the direction of the Brakebills sign. 

“Are you experiencing chromatic vision?”

“What?”

“Are you seeing colors, sir?” The woman on the phone is very patient. 

“Well, yes, but--”

“Oh, so you haven’t met Mr. Waugh, then.” 

“Mr…What? Who?”

“Mr. Eliot Waugh. Your soulmate.” 

“My…?” Quentin glances up at Eliot, who wiggles his eyebrows and waves, the cigarette between his first two fingers emitting a smoky zig-zag. “Uh, no, he’s right here, but—” 

“Then it looks like everything’s in order. Have a nice day. Congratulations again!”

“Wait!” Quentin is starting to panic in earnest now. “Could I, um. Can I speak to your manager?” He hates how desperate he sounds. 

The woman on the phone sighs and says, “One moment, please.” 

The opening notes to “All You Need Is Love” play through the phone’s speaker. The two young men stand in awkward silence. 

There is a another click, and another woman’s voice. 

“Soulmate Department, Corrine speaking, how can I help you?” asks a bored contralto. 

“Hi!” says Quentin, louder than he’d intended. “Hi, Corrine. I think there’s been some sort of a mix-up.” 

“Let me pull up your record.” This time, Quentin isn’t even afforded the dubious dignity of a Beatles song, just silence and a tapping keyboard. “Let’s see. Mr. Quentin Coldwater, 22. Soulmate: Mr. Eliot Waugh, 23. Place of first meeting, Brakebills University quad, date of meeting…oh, it’s today! Congratulations!” 

“Thanks-” he starts to say, before catching himself, then, “-why do people keep saying that?” 

“This is one of the most important days of your life. You should be excited!” 

“Uh, sure,” says Quentin. “But…the thing is… this isn’t my soulmate.” 

Corinne sounded resigned as she said, “What seems to be the problem?” 

“Well,” he says turning and taking a few quick steps away from Eliot, whom he’s just met and who he’s pretty sure already hates him, “it’s just that, well, he’s uh…”

“He’s what?” says Corinne. She sounds like she already knows the answer and doesn’t like it. 

“You know. Um.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “ _A guy._ ” 

He had hoped that Eliot wouldn’t hear that last part, but that hope had clearly been in vain, because he can hear Eliot scoff behind him and mutter, “Fabulous. My soulmate is a straight boy. I’m going to die alone. And celibate.” 

Over the phone, Corinne says, “And?”

“And! I’m not…” he lowers his voice again, out of instinct, though it probably doesn’t matter now. Sotto-voce, he loudly hisses, “ _I’m not gay!_ ”

‘I’m not saying you are, sir,” says Corinne, slowly, like she’s speaking to someone very stupid. Somewhere, behind the fog of confusion and sensory overload, Quentin’s abused brain begins to notice a pattern of people treating him like a child. 

“But I like girls!” he whines. “And I’ve been seeing colors for years. I already have a soulmate, Julia Wicker--”  
Quentin is forced to wrench the phone away from his head as Corinne roars with laughter. 

“Hahahahahahaha! Hahahaha! Hah.” She sounds genuinely joyous. “Julia-“ the Soulmate Department manager tries to say something else, but dissolves again into laughter. The arm attached to Quentin’s phone-hand falls to his side, and he can still hear her ringing laughter even though his phone is now more than two feet away from his head. He is completely out of his depth and so done with this. Exasperated, he looks around for help, or at least sympathy, but finds only Eliot Waugh, chuckling silently at Quentin’s expense. Quentin glares at him. 

Corinne finally catches her breath, and Quentin reluctantly returns the phone to his ear. 

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Coldwater. It’s just…” the mirth is starting to bubble up through her tone again. “ _Julia Wicker_. That caught me by surprise. No. Platonic soulmate, maybe, but that is _not_ the same thing.” 

“But…” Quentin feels very small. He’s pleading now. “The colors…”

“Ah,” says Corrine. “Partial Chromatic vision. That happens sometimes. Sometimes a very close friendship will trigger partial-chromacy. It’s not as vivid as the color that comes with romantic soulmate connection. We call it the ‘platonic soulmate’ effect. It’s not uncommon. I think that that’s what we’re looking at here.” 

Quentin sits down heavily on the trimmed lawn. He’s probably about to find out what grass-stains look like in full-color. He cradles the phone against his head and looks up at the blue, blue sky. He fills his lungs with warm, sweet air, then lets it out, thinking, unaccountably, of Eliot’s smile. 

“I promise I’m not gay,” he half-whispers into the phone. He’s no longer trying to keep his voice down. His vocal cords simply don’t want to work. 

Corinne’s voice is kind, gentle as she answers him. Her words actually penetrate this time, and he realizes that what she is saying is somehow the last thing he expected to hear. “Nobody said you were, Mr. Coldwater.” 

Something in Quentin changes: something he can’t name. It breaks. His eyes are beginning to sting. He rubs one inner corner with his knuckle and it comes away wet. He needs a moment to just breathe. 

“Mr. Coldwater,” says Corinne, softly, “Quentin. You do know that gay and straight aren’t the only things a person can be…” It’s posed as a gentle, cautious question. 

He’s sitting curled on the ground, ankles crossed, arms around his knees. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen curved inward. He nods, stiffly, even knowing Corinne can’t see him. “Of course I know that,” he says. He’s starting to tremble. Blue sky. Green grass. Red brick. “I just…” Breathe in. Breathe out. “I just never thought it applied to _me_.” 

“Quentin,” says Corinne, “is Eliot still with you?”

Eliot is standing by the sign with his arms at his sides, regarding Quentin curiously, no cigarette in sight. Quentin nods again, and says, “I…yeah. He’s here.” 

“Okay,” says Corinne. “I need you to do something for me, Quentin.” 

“Um. Okay,” says Quentin. 

“Look at him,” she says. “Look him in the eye and tell me one more time that he’s not your soulmate.” 

He looks up. 

Quentin is getting used to the colors by now. He is learning to coexist with the blue sky, the red buildings, the greens and browns of the earth. But he is still not used to the color of Eliot’s eyes. They meet his: hazel, haunting. Kaleidoscopes of amber and chartreuse and polished-kettle copper, cradled between soft, dark lashes. Quentin has seen many colors today, all of them beautiful. But, he thinks, as his stomach drops and the rest of the world goes quiet behind the rushing of his ears, the color of Eliot’s eyes might be his favorite one. 

“What you’re feeling right now,” says Corinne through the phone, “it doesn’t invalidate how you feel about Julia, or any other women. That’s still part of you. It’s just not the only part.” 

Quentin tries a cautious smile, just a twitch of the lips really. Eliot, just as cautiously, curves his mouth in return.  
“You’re one of the lucky ones,” says Corinne. “Some people go their whole lives seeing only gray. Not you. You have something beautiful and rare. All you have to do is accept it.” 

“I…yeah,” says Quentin. “Yeah, I think I can do that.” And he does. 

“Are we good here?” asks Corinne. 

“Yeah,” says Quentin. “I think we are.” 

He can hear the smile in Corinne’s voice as she says, “Excellent. It’s been a pleasure talking with you, Quentin Coldwater. And congratulations, again.” 

“Thanks,” says Quentin, warmth blossoming in his chest. 

The phone bleeps to let him know that the call has ended. He stows it in his pocket and gets up, dusting himself off to the best of his ability. His entire body is alive as he walks toward Eliot. It is as if the colors around him have gotten under his skin, into his blood, and are swirling around inside him, lifting him up and propelling him forward. He stops walking when he is close enough to Eliot to smell him, to feel the heat coming off his body. He breathes in, filling his nose and head with so much sweetness he can no longer feel his feet on the ground. 

Eliot stands frozen. His face is curious, hopeful, and a little afraid as Quentin approaches. By the time Quentin stops, he is smiling, cautious and vulnerable. 

“Hey,” says Quentin, still staring into those eyes. Those eyes that could drown him. Those eyes he could live in forever. 

“Hey,” says Eliot, back. His voice is low and smooth and so tender it hurts. 

“I, uh…” says Quentin, and stops. In this moment he doesn’t have any words. He takes a deep, heady breath and rises to his toes, stretching himself upward to kiss Eliot on the mouth. 

When Eliot kisses him back his lips are warm, and taste of ashes, peaches, and a summer breeze. It feels like coming home. 

It feels like being whole.

**Author's Note:**

> ["When I'm 64"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HCTunqv1Xt4) by The Beatles
> 
>  
> 
> [Illustration!](https://66.media.tumblr.com/8c4cd62f6198977f1459a60ba098352b/tumblr_ptkck5x1Ru1y9sgjwo1_1280.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
> Julia has been able to see color her entire life, because she is her own soulmate. This is very rare. A person like that is only born every 100 years or so. Everyone in the Department has heard of her. She is still perfectly capable of forming connections and falling in love, she just doesn’t need another person to be whole. Needless to say, her color-vision only added to Quentin’s misconception. 
> 
> My brain is complaining that phones don’t work on campus. Well, I say this to you, Brain: “Soulmate mechanics don’t work in the canon either, so I think we’re good.” That ought to shut you up for a while. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Looking forward to chatting with you in the comments! (but, like, please be nice as this is my first fic and first time posting anything to ao3. That's also my excuse if the formatting is off.)


End file.
